Fishing Expedition

 

The words were soggy,

flimsy, warped and stretched

to a degree I had not expected.

Soaked in gurgling emotion,

in rivers of tears and oceans

of regret.

 

Some days, the words I

want to use to examine life or

solicit emotion seem like they are

under the water, deep beneath

the surface, fathoms below,

Leagues beneath.

Maybe 20,000 of them.

 

Pulling the words up from the

bottom of the Sea,

cleaning the brine and

barnacles off,

shooing the critters that

have made the nooks their homes.

 

Avoiding the claws and pincers of

the ornerier animals,

as I try, delicately practiced,

to make the words shimmer and

shine with hopes and dreams.

imagination, philosophy and art.

 

But now, it seems, I’m sitting,

in a small boat, feeling a little

sea-sick, as the waves roll beneath

me, line in the water, net at the ready,

to find me those good words.

The keepers.

 

The little ones, I should throw

back; but there’s no limit on this

body of water on how much I can

remove, so I’ll keep ‘em.

In a bucket.

Between my shoes.  

Sloshing.